


Boy Blue

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (Only one partner is aware), Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slut Shaming, Spanking, Unnegotiated Kink, humping, unnegotiated d/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27511453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: Peter has big hands and broad shoulders, and a smile that’s bright without showing any warmth. His cologne smells of cedar and bergamot, and the scent makes Martin’s stomach clench into a fist every time they’re in a room together.When Peter is around he takes up so much space that he’s impossible to ignore. He fills up all the cracks in Martin’s awareness, looming and amused.*Martin knows he shouldn’t. He’s not even sure he wants to. He just can’t seem to help himself.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 16
Kudos: 113
Collections: Forever Worms





	Boy Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Swooping in here many months late with a fill for Winter Worms Fest. For the prompt:
> 
> “Petermartin daddy kink where Peter is actually Martin's father but he didn't know. daddy kink! angst! Martin whump! bonus points if Peter reveals the truth while he's actively fucking Martin.” 
> 
> Since it’s Peter/Martin Week, I figured this was a good time to knuckle down and finally get this done.
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful fatal_drum for beta and hand holding! <3
> 
> Please make sure to read the tags on this one. Title because what’s a father/son incest fic without a reference to ‘Cat’s In The Cradle’?

It’s wrong, Martin knows. It’s wrong, and dangerous. Peter Lukas is a literal monster. He kills people, or as close as makes no difference. You’d have to have something wrong with you, to be attracted to someone like that. 

Martin has to have something wrong with him. 

Peter has big hands and broad shoulders, and a smile that’s bright without showing any warmth. His cologne smells of cedar and bergamot, and the scent makes Martin’s stomach clench into a fist every time they’re in a room together.

When Peter is around he takes up so much space that he’s impossible to ignore. He fills up all the cracks in Martin’s awareness, looming and amused.

Peter asks questions. About friends and family and childhood memories, and Martin knows they’re intended to hurt, to evoke all those absences that twist and yawn inside him. He’s not sure if Peter even knows he’s doing it, or if it’s sheer instinct, like a gun dog pointing at a pheasant:

“Did anyone from your school ever talk to you after you dropped out?” 

“What was it like, when you were trapped for two weeks and no one noticed?”

“Do you think anyone would notice if you went missing now?”

Martin does his best to ignore it; he understands the game, and even if he can’t stop Peter’s words from hurting him, he doesn’t have to engage. Doesn’t have to give Peter anything for free. 

The way Peter touches him, Martin thinks at first that it’s just more of the same. It’s meant to make him feel alone, when Peter squeezes his shoulder in a meaningless gesture. Peter’s hand in the small of his back, a reminder of how little other people touch him. 

Maybe it is, but Peter isn’t only a monster. The day after Jared Hopworth attacks, Martin goes to Peter’s office and tells him he’s ready to listen. Peter smiles, and sits too close to him. He talks about the birth of fear and the end of the world, while his hand slides casually up Martin’s thigh to his groin, cupping his cock. 

“Peter, what the hell?” Martin stammers, his face flaming, but his protests don’t mean much when he isn’t pushing Peter away. Isn’t making any effort to dissuade Peter from fondling him. Is getting hard, in fact, with Peter’s hand rubbing him through his trousers. 

“This isn’t a problem, is it?” Peter asks in that careless way that he has, and Martin shakes his head, his eyes squeezed shut. Peter unzips him, takes him fully in hand and strokes him firmly. His hand is callused and surprisingly gentle, and it’s been a long time since anyone touched Martin. 

Peter bends him over Elias’ desk, trousers and pants around his ankles. Peter presses slippery fingers inside him until he’s moaning out loud, pushing back against the intrusion, his cock desperately hard and sliding against the desk. He whimpers when Peter’s cock nudges up between his arse cheeks, big and hot. Peter works it into him with almost torturous slowness, and it’s been so long that Martin had almost forgotten how good it felt to be stuffed full and fucked. Peter rocks slowly against him, his cock barely moving inside Martin, but it’s so much, all his nerve endings electric and his dick smearing pre-come over the polished surface.

“Please,” he breathes. “Please.”

Peter’s hand closes around his cock again and Martin comes almost at once, spilling across the smooth wood. There’s a little surge of triumph at the thought that Elias definitely knows what he’s done. Peter smears his fingers through the sticky puddle and then lifts them to Martin’s mouth, pressing them past his lips. 

“Clean up the mess you made, there’s a good boy,” he murmurs, encouraging, and Martin’s breath catches. He licks Peter’s fingers carefully clean, his heart thundering in his ears. 

“Have you made a decision, then?“ Peter asks him afterwards, and yeah. Yeah, Martin’s decided. It isn’t as if he has much left to lose. 

*

They fuck regularly after that. Over Elias’ desk or in Peter’s enormous bed or on some other item of furniture in his luxurious, sterile apartment. Martin doesn’t trust Peter as far as he could throw him, but there’s something in the sure way he touches Martin that—absurdly—makes him feel safe. Martin’s always had a thing for older men, their self-assurance and experience, and he’s well aware it’s a cliché but that doesn’t make his knees any less weak when Peter pulls him into his lap and wraps possessive arms around him. 

It’s only a matter of time until Peter presses his advantage.

“Are you going to be good for me, Martin?” he asks one day, with Martin kneeling in front of his expensive leather sofa, between Peter’s spread legs. He’s holding his cock in one hand and cupping Martin’s face in the other, just barely brushing the head against his lips. Martin’s heart skips a beat. 

“Y-yes,” he says, weakly. 

“Tell me,” says Peter. His fingers dig into Martin’s hair, gripping a handful just hard enough to hurt. Martin feels his eyelids flutter. 

“I’m going to—to be good.” 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Peter says, smearing the wet head of his prick against Martin’s cheek. “Only good boys get a taste of Daddy’s cock.” 

Martin’s heart jolts. Something hot and thrilling rolls through him, quickening his breath. What the hell? 

Peter chuckles. 

“Do you want a taste, Martin?”

He shouldn’t say yes, because this is all wrong, Peter shouldn’t know about that. He should stop this, get off his knees and tell Peter to fuck off, tell him this isn’t going to happen again, none of it. He should— 

“Please,” he says, and it’s almost a whimper. 

Peter’s hand tightens in his hair. “Please…?” he prompts, and now it’s definitely a whimper as Martin’s chest tightens, his cheeks burning with humiliation. He feels lightheaded. 

“Please, Daddy.”

“There’s my good boy,” Peter says, his voice full of affection that rings entirely hollow. Martin moans as the round, velvet head of Peter’s cock slips between his lips, leaking salt onto his tongue. His whole body feels boneless, his mouth the only part of him that matters. Peter presses gradually deeper, deeper, until he’s sheathed entirely in Martin’s throat. Martin sucks and swallows around him, the musky taste flooding his mouth. Peter’s hands stroke his hair, his cheeks, cup the back of his neck tenderly as Peter’s hips rock into his face, his nose buried in Peter’s pubic hair. 

“You’re so good for Daddy, aren’t you?” Peter murmurs. “My good little slut. Sucking cock like you were born for it. How many cocks have you sucked to be this good at it, hmm?”

His fingers twist in Martin’s hair and he yanks, dragging Martin off his cock. Martin can’t tell if the whine that escapes him is from the pain, or from being deprived of his mouthful. He pants, his mouth watering, Peter’s slick, heavy cock only inches from his face. 

“I said, how many cocks have you sucked?” Peter’s voice is stern, no longer amused. Martin gapes at him, bewildered. 

“I don’t know,” he says, “I don’t— ”

“Ten? Twenty? A hundred?” Peter’s grip on his hair tightens painfully, and Martin winces, tears springing to his eyes. His hands twitch against his thighs, but trying to lift them, to stop this, seems an impossible task. Peter gives a tug to encourage him and he gasps. 

“Tw-twenty, maybe?”

“Twenty,” says Peter, his tone unreadable. Martin nods minutely, clenching his teeth against the drag on his scalp. 

“Twenty,” says Peter again. His grip gentles, and his other hand comes to cup Martin’s jaw, his thumb swiping across Martin’s parted, wet lips. Martin leans into the touch, can’t help himself, his body leaden and humming with sensation. Peter guides his mouth back onto his cock and Martin takes it gratefully, letting it stretch his jaw and fill his mouth, nudging into the back of his throat. 

“No more of that, now,” Peter tells him, paternal and thoroughly reasonable. “From now on you only suck Daddy’s cock, understood?” Martin nods, swallowing desperately. Peter’s hands stroke his face, hold his heavy head in place as Peter fucks his throat. 

Martin is achingly hard just from this, the weight of Peter’s cock on his tongue, his cool hands on Martin’s burning cheeks, the cedar and bergamot smell of him. His murmured words of praise: that’s good, that’s Daddy’s good boy. That same word coming from his own lips, the dizzying taboo of it; just thinking of it makes his dick twitch. He wants to say it again. His hips cant up, seeking friction against the fabric of his trousers, and he groans in frustration at the inadequacy of it. 

After a while, Peter pulls away again and comes across Martin’s face, onto his parted lips, hot spunk landing across his cheek and nose and chin. 

“What do you say when someone gives you a gift?” he prompts. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” says Martin, a shiver of pleasure running through him. He rocks back onto his heels, licking the stickiness from his lips. Peter gives a benevolent smile at the sight of his tented trousers.

“Look at you, just from sucking my cock. You really are a slut, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Martin says. It feels so good to say it. 

“Daddy’s sweet little slut. Do you want to come?”

“Yes, Daddy, please!” 

“Take your prick out, then, let Daddy see it.”

Martin fumbles to unfasten his fly and push down his boxers, letting his cock spring free. It is stiff and red, aching to be touched, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t been told to yet. Peter chuckles indulgently. 

“Go on,” he says, “Let Daddy see how you touch yourself.”

Martin sighs with relief when his hand closes around his cock. He strokes it slowly, for Peter’s inspection. He rubs his thumb over the head and spreads the leaking pre-come, just enough slick to help his hand move easily on the shaft, rolling the foreskin back with each motion so the cool air teases his slit. Peter’s hand cups the back of his neck. 

“That’s it,” he says encouragingly. “Show Daddy how much you’ve grown. Remember when you were very small, too young to bathe alone, and you used to compare your little prick to your Daddy’s in the shower?” 

Martin gives a choked gasp, his stomach turning over. 

“You can’t—”

“It’s not unusual, you know,” Peter shrugs. “Lots of little boys compare. Admittedly, not all of them grow up wanting to suck Daddy’s cock.”

Martin’s prick jumps in his hand, and he fists it harder, squeezing the shaft. He shakes his head, as if he could deny that any of this is happening.

“I don’t...I don’t...” he whines. Peter leans closer, his thumb stroking over Martin’s cheekbone, smearing come into his skin. The smell of his cologne is heavy and pungent; Martin feels dizzy with it. 

“Of course you do. Because he left you all alone. And you want him to love you so badly, don’t you? You want Daddy to love you and shove his cock down your throat and tell you that you’re good.”

Martin moans feebly, his hips bucking into his hand. Peter’s hands are on him, holding him up or down, he can’t tell which. This is sick and wrong and he’s never been so turned on in his life, his whole body hot and trembling with desire. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” Peter whispers, pulling Martin closer to him. “It’s okay now, because Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here, and I’m going to take care of my sweet little boy.” 

Martin comes with a choked sob, his head against Peter’s knee, his whole body curling in on itself in heaving spasms of pleasure. He can feel himself crying, drooling into the expensive leg of Peter’s trousers as his shoulders shake, but Peter just pets his hair and shushes him some more. 

“There’s Daddy’s good boy,” he says, and Martin knows the tenderness in his voice is a lie, but it feels so good to let himself sink into it, helpless and reliant. 

“Daddy,” he whimpers against Peter’s thigh, “Daddy…” as the scent of bergamot and cedar washes over him. 

Afterwards Peter sends him home in a sleek car, and Martin crawls under his duvet and jerks off again to the memory of Peter’s gentle, insincere touch, the words that still curl dangerous and thrilling in the back of his throat. He comes with a grunt, and then before he knows it he’s crying again, quietly this time, hot tears blurring his vision as his stomach sinks like a stone. He lies there, drained and useless, until he falls asleep. 

*

It’s all down to Elias, that much is obvious. No doubt he informed Peter that Martin Blackwood is a walking stereotype of abandonment issues, right down to the daddy kink. Martin feels a bit sick at the thought that Elias knows his porn viewing habits, which is ridiculous; it’s far from the worst thing the man has done. 

It’s funny, because Martin scarcely remembers his dad. He has vague recollections of a tall, blocky figure, strong arms that picked him up and swung him around, a rumble of a voice that used to sing to him some nights as he fell asleep, always the same wordless tune. The memories are faceless, far less detailed than Martin would expect; he has more vivid memories of his Year 3 sports day, when he’d come second in the egg-and-spoon race and got a red ribbon. He certainly doesn’t recall the man enough to have fantasies about him, and despite Peter’s efforts he is well aware that daddy kink doesn’t actually have incestuous roots. It’s difficult to remember that, when Peter is pushing him down and using his words so cruelly, twisting into him like a corkscrew, but it’s fine.

It’s fine. Martin can handle it. This is just another tactic Peter is using to get him under his thumb: isolate him and fuck him and play out his filthy little fantasies, and he’ll go along with whatever the hell it is that Peter actually wants from him. Frankly, this is a lot better than the vague threats about the Extinction that Peter has yet to provide any evidence for. At least this way he’s getting a good fucking out of it. He’s fine.

*

And then Jon wakes up, and finds Martin in the corridor somehow, his eyes hollow and exhausted and a desperate note of hope in his voice. Martin grits his teeth and walks away without telling Jon how much he missed him, without voicing the deep, agonized longing at the core of him, sits in his office with his hands trembling and his breath coming shallow and shaky. Peter finds him there, looms over him and curls a hand around the back of his neck, a comfort or a threat. 

“I have to admit I’m disappointed, Martin,” he says. “I thought we understood each other.” 

“A simple hello isn’t going to change anything,” Martin protests. He shivers as Peter leans closer. Peter’s lips brush his ear. 

“I thought you were Daddy’s good boy,” he says. “Don’t you want to be good, Martin?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Martin can’t stop the words tumbling from his lips, not when they feel so natural, so right. “S-sorry, Daddy.”

“Hmm,” Peter muses. “I’m not certain you are. Let’s make sure of it, shall we?” 

He moves across the room to sit on the narrow, uncomfortable sofa, and smiles brightly at Martin, patting his broad thighs. 

“Trousers down,” he says cheerfully, “And pants too while you’re at it. Then come and lie across Daddy’s knee.” 

“Peter—” Martin begins; Peter frowns and he swallows hard. “D-daddy...I don’t...”

“Yes you do,” says Peter, patting his thighs again. “Daddy knows what you need, Martin.”

Martin gets slowly to his feet, and takes a step towards the sofa. 

“Ah!” Peter wags a finger at him. “Trousers and pants first.”

Martin bites his lip and opens his fly with unsteady fingers, then pushes his jeans and boxers down in a single motion. His cock is already at half mast, at only a few words from Peter’s lips. Peter chuckles. 

“Now,” he says, that same finger crooking. “Come here to Daddy.”

Martin shuffles across the floor towards him, his jeans caught around his ankles, his cock bobbing in front of him. He can feel his cheeks burning by the time his shins bump against Peter’s legs. 

“Good boy,” Peter growls. “Now, over Daddy’s knee.”

Martin folds awkwardly across Peter’s legs, Peter’s thigh pressing into his stomach, his cock rubbing against Peter’s trousers. He feels horribly vulnerable, his arse shoved out behind him and his face pressed to the scratchy fabric of the sofa. 

“There’s Daddy’s good boy,” Peter murmurs, stroking a big hand over his buttocks, firm and possessive. Martin whimpers. 

The first smack startles a yelp out of him, sharp and stinging. He feels more than he hears the low rumble of Peter’s laughter. 

“Shame you didn’t get any of this as a boy,” Peter tells him. “You might be a bit less defiant now.”

The second one hurts more. Martin groans, his cock rubbing against Peter’s thigh, and Peter’s hand comes down again, hard and merciless. The humiliation of it makes his face burn, his whole body thrumming with mortification as he moans and gasps and whimpers. He can’t do anything but lie there and take it as Peter spanks him, his arse stinging with hot pain that rolls over into pleasure, his cock dragging against Peter’s trouser leg, painfully hard and leaking. Peter is humming wordlessly to himself, a tune just on the edge of Martin’s hearing that he thinks might be familiar if he could concentrate enough to listen. He’s lost count of the number of blows when Peter stops at last, palming the hot, reddened skin of his buttocks. Martin moans weakly and ruts against his leg. 

“Where are your manners?” Peter demands, grabbing a handful of the tender flesh and digging his nails in. “Good boys don’t hump Daddy’s leg without permission.”

“Sorry, sorry Daddy!” Martin whines, desperate, loathing himself even as he does. “Please, Daddy!”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Do you think you’ve learned your lesson?”

“Yes, Daddy, I promise, I won’t talk to—to him again! Please…” 

“All right, we’ll have ten more strokes for good measure, and if you can come in that time so be it. If not, you won’t touch your filthy little prick for the rest of the day, understand?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Martin breathes, pressing his face into the sofa. Peter’s hand falls across his buttock with a sharp crack and he moans, cants his hips to rub against Peter’s thigh. 

“One,” Peter counts off, then “Two,” slapping the other cheek hard. Martin whines and humps against him frantically; he needs this so badly, his entire body taut and shuddering with arousal. 

“Three,” Peter counts, and “Four. Five,” and on “Six,” Martin shakes apart, his cock spilling between Peter’s thighs, keening high in his throat. Peter counts off the final four strokes while Martin shivers and moans, rubbing his cheek against the sofa’s scratchy weave. 

“Such a dirty little boy, aren’t you?” Peter croons, sounding amused. Martin nods weakly.

“Yes, Daddy,” he breathes. “Thank you, Daddy.” His whole body feels heavy and numb, except for the hot ache across his buttocks. He doesn’t protest as Peter manhandles him further onto the sofa, face pressed to the cushion and arse in the air. Lets Peter spread his tender cheeks, spit on his hole and fuck into him, fast and deep. Martin drifts, hazy and untethered, while Peter’s cock fills him, sending little shuddering jolts of pleasure through him, his spent dick twitching feebly. Peter’s scent in his nose, Peter’s voice murmuring in his ear. 

“It’s for the best you don’t see your Archivist again,” he says. “He might know just from looking at you what a filthy slut you are, how you let Daddy use all of your holes. You love being fucked by Daddy, don’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy…please...” Admitting it feels so good, shame and relief washing over him in waves, and he moans, closing his eyes. Peter leans close, the weight of him resting across Martin’s back. 

“If your mum had been a good little slut like you are, do you think Daddy would have stayed?” 

Martin shudders and screws his eyes more tightly closed, his gut twisting and a lump rising in his throat. Peter kisses his neck, open mouthed and tender, hums wordlessly against Martin’s skin as he comes.

The next time Jon finds him, Martin doesn’t meet his eyes, doesn’t want to see the exhaustion or the hope in them. Jon mentions his mother, tells him he’s sorry, and Martin swallows the sick feeling that threatens to choke him, thanks him and runs away as fast as he can. He hopes Jon doesn’t find him again, for his own sake. 

*

These days, Peter is either entirely absent or aggressively in Martin’s space, smelling of cedar and bergamot and familiarity that Martin can’t grasp at. Peter is all false intimacies and invasive questions: 

“Did you cry when you put your mum in the home?” 

“Did you cry the first time you had sex?” 

“Did you cry when your daddy left you?”

All these things he shouldn’t know and Martin loathes Elias for scouring out his deepest secrets and handing them to a monster; loathes Peter for the way his touch turns Martin’s spine to liquid, the way Peter’s words, there’s Daddy’s sweet boy, send his brain awash with warm, helpless bliss. 

He can handle it, he tells himself while Peter strips him bare and fucks him and leaves him feeling emptier than he ever has. Jon is alive, which means he has something to protect, and as long as Peter thinks he’s breaking Martin, he’ll leave Jon alone. It’s fine, he reminds himself, while Peter licks him open and tells him what a good little slut he is and Martin whimpers yes Daddy, yes, and can’t tell if it’s what Peter wants to hear, or what he’s desperate to say. 

Except it turns out he can’t even keep Jon safe. Can’t even stop him from climbing into a coffin to save Daisy of all people. And god, god, he comes back, but those three days are some of the worst of Martin’s life. Worse even than the coma, maybe. At least then he could see Jon, knew he was—well, safe is a strong term. But not in active danger, not physically crawling through the throat of fear, buried alive and maybe forever. Martin doesn’t sleep those three days, piles tape recorders on the coffin with dwindling hope, and when Jon finally emerges he can barely keep from revealing himself then and there, pulling Jon into his arms and giving him a good shouting at for being so stupid. 

He doesn’t, of course. He goes back up to his office, curls up on the narrow sofa, and sleeps for twelve hours straight. 

The next day he gets a text from Peter: Come to mine after work ;) it says and Martin is furious, because he promised. The only bloody thing Peter’s good for is keeping the other monsters away, keeping the Institute at least mildly safe, and he can’t even do that. And then he has the nerve to summon Martin for a—a booty call, with a bloody winky face, as if everything was perfectly fine. Martin has half a mind not to go at all, make his displeasure known that way, except he’s not entirely sure Peter would get the message. 

Peter offers him a glass of whisky when he arrives—which he knows Martin hates—and that just makes him angrier. Predictably, Peter dismisses his complaints out of hand. 

“You were supposed to keep anyone from attacking the Archives again,” Martin says. 

“I’d hardly call a visit from a fragment of the Circus an attack,” Peter shrugs. “And anyway, I’m only one person, I can’t keep an eye on everything.”

“Or anything, apparently. Jon could have died!”

“To the best of my knowledge, he actually couldn’t,” says Peter. “And I thought we talked about this—the Archivist isn’t your concern anymore.” 

“It’s my concern when you’re not holding up your end of our agreement!” Martin snaps. Peter frowns.

“I don’t like when you defy me, Martin. Daddy’s very disappointed.”

“No, Peter!” Martin pushes away the reflexive rush of heat that goes through him. “Not now, this is serious!” 

“Very serious,” Peter growls. He takes two quick steps and then his hand is twisting in Martin’s hair, yanking hard, and his mouth is against Martin’s ear. “You’re being very bad right now, Martin. I thought you were a good boy.”

“Peter—” Martin begins, then gasps as the grip in his hair twists viciously tight. Peter’s hand shakes him, hard, and he yelps. 

“Don’t you want to be a good boy, Martin?” His voice rumbles low in Martin’s ear and the scent of him fills Martin’s nostrils, so strangely intimate. His hand yanks on Martin’s hair again and Martin whimpers, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. 

“P—please, Peter—Daddy!” he whines. Peter growls with satisfaction and his other hand lands on Martin’s shoulder, pushing him down; Martin’s knees are jelly and he goes helplessly, his hands scrabbling weakly at the vise grip in his hair. 

“Good boys do what they’re told and they don’t talk back.” Peter unfastens his trousers one handed and frees his flaccid cock. “I think you owe Daddy an apology, don’t you?”

His grip on Martin’s hair loosens and Martin knows Peter doesn’t want him to say anything. He leans forward and takes Peter’s soft prick in his mouth, his hands dropping back by his sides. He sucks at the length of it, feeling saliva well up under his tongue, feeling Peter’s cock swell and stiffen. Peter’s other hand cups the back of his head, holding him in place.

“Much better,” Peter murmurs. “Isn’t this better? Doing something useful with that filthy mouth of yours, instead of spreading wild accusations.” 

He rocks his hips against Martin’s face, driving deeper, deeper, until the head of his prick is bumping the back of Martin’s throat. Martin struggles not to choke, his jaw stretched and sore, drooling around Peter’s cock as Peter fucks his throat relentlessly. His own cock is rigid in his trousers and he feels sick to his stomach even as he sucks Peter hungrily, desperate for something just out of reach, something he can’t quite identify. 

He feels pre-come slicking over his tongue before Peter tugs him away, drags him to his feet with a hand still twisted in his hair and walks him into the bedroom. Peter gives him an unceremonious shove onto the bed and starts to unbutton his shirt, his cock still standing proud of his trousers, stiff and red. 

“Take your clothes off,” he orders. Martin does so slowly, his fingers numb. He shouldn’t do this, but he can’t think of anything else to do right now, his mind as clumsy as his fingers. He licks his lips, chasing the musky taste that lingers there. Peter smirks at the sight of his erection.

“Such a slutty boy,” he says. “Do you want Daddy to fuck you?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” says Martin. He doesn’t want Peter to fuck him. The thought makes him sick and angry, but his cock twitches at the idea and his head is swimming. Peter tosses him a bottle of lubricant.

“Get your dirty little hole ready, then. If you do a good job, you’ll get your reward.” 

Martin lies back on the bed, his whole body hot and trembling, at once senseless and aching with desire. He presses slick fingers past the tight rim of his arsehole, his eyelids fluttering as his wrist brushes against his cock, so desperate for touch that it makes him moan. Peter watches as he slides his fingers deep, then out and in again, fucking himself open. 

“Good boy,” Peter growls. “Things are always better when you do what Daddy says, Martin. Tell me, do you even know why you piled all those tape recorders on the coffin?” 

“I—ahh—I thought it might help.”

“And where did you get the idea?” Peter is leaning over him now, his broad, bulky form so close but not yet touching him and Martin wants. He curls his fingers inside himself, and squirms as pleasure courses through him. 

“I-I don’t know,” he gasps. There’s a crack and a sharp, stinging pain across his inner thigh as Peter smacks him. 

“I don’t know…?” he prompts. Martin whimpers. 

“I don’t know, Daddy, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s all right,” says Peter, and bends to suck a hard kiss into the skin he’s just slapped. Martin moans. “You can’t be expected to decide things for yourself. Daddy knows what’s best for you, Martin. Now, roll over.”

Martin twists onto his front and lets Peter arrange him with his arse in the air. Peter prods at his slick, tender hole with a couple of fingers and Martin groans, tries to push himself onto them until Peter smacks his thigh again, harder this time. 

“Patience, sweetheart,” he says, as the blunt head of his cock nudges Martin’s hole. He sinks in with a single long, slow motion, stretching Martin open and filling him deep as he moans helplessly, until he’s pressed flush to Martin’s back. 

“Please, Daddy,” Martin breathes. His whole body feels at once electrified and leaden, humming with sensation but so heavy he can barely turn his head. His cock is throbbing between his legs. 

“Shhh,” Peter whispers against his ear, and Martin whimpers. The heavy smell of Peter’s cologne clenches a fist around his heart. “Daddy knows what you need.” 

His hips start to move, his cock pumping in and out, hot and hard and deep, and part of Martin knows it’s pathetic to let Peter do this to him but the rest of him is clenching his fingers in Peter’s expensive sheets, begging please, Daddy, please fuck me, while he trembles and moans. 

“I want you to remember that Daddy knows what’s best for you, Martin.” Peter’s voice is a low growl against his ear and it sends shivers through him, his heart stuttering. 

“Yes, Daddy!” he cries. Peter’s hand slides underneath him and takes Martin’s aching cock in his hand, and he hears himself groan aloud. 

“Not your Archivist, and not Elias, just me. You’re my good boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy, please!” Euphoria rushes through his veins at the words, you’re good, you’re mine, and he can’t even feel pathetic anymore; he only feels grateful. Daddy knows what he needs and Daddy’s going to take care of him. Waves of arousal rock his body as Peter’s cock drives into him, over and over, filling him up while Peter’s hand strokes his prick firmly, exactly the way he needs it. Martin is crying with gratitude, the absolute bliss of surrender. 

“I’ve always known what’s best for you, Martin,” Peter murmurs in his ear. “That’s why I left you behind with her, to bring you closer to our god.”

And right then, the elusive scent memory snaps into place and Martin remembers the wood and citrus smell of his daddy’s cologne, the way it always made him feel so safe and warm in his daddy’s big, strong arms. The way it all went away so suddenly. He groans in horrified despair. 

“My sweet boy,” Peter tells him, and squeezes his cock, and Martin’s coming with a low, keening cry, his whole body shaking. Peter thrusts into him a few more times and then he comes as well, his cock spilling inside Martin with a moan. 

Martin lies there while Peter kisses his shoulder, his softening cock slipping out of Martin’s arse. He doesn’t move when Peter gets up and leaves the room, and returns a few moments later with a damp cloth, which he swipes over Martin’s arse and his inner thighs. 

“There’s a good boy,” Peter tells him, and Martin shudders. This can’t be real, it can’t, he can’t think, and when Peter rolls him onto his side and pulls the covers over him, he suddenly feels terribly tired, his whole body a useless lump. 

“There we go,” says Peter. He sits on the edge of the bed, his large hand brushing Martin’s hair back from his forehead. “Why don’t you get some sleep and we can talk about all this later, eh?”

Martin opens his mouth to say something, to scream, but the words won’t come, his throat tight and his mind sluggish and exhausted. He feels his eyelids drooping, leaden, and when Peter leans down and kisses his brow he can’t even flinch away. Peter chuckles fondly. 

“Everything’s going to be fine, Martin,” he says. “Daddy’s here now.”

He starts to hum a low, lilting tune, the same one he used to sing to Martin when he was very young. Martin closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of cedar and bergamot, and lets the world drift away.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @cuttoothed


End file.
